Interstice
by littleblackdog
Summary: In moments, both large and small, a Hero becomes a Queen.  Fable II & III, and the space between.  A companion piece to Tesserae; contains mostly Sparrow, with a bit of Walter and Reaver thrown in.
1. Renewal

Sparrow stared numbly at the empty space Theresa and Garth had so recently occupied— nothing but the sounds of water lapping against the docks and the faint, oddly metallic scent of spent willpower remained. The wind was cool, with evening painting the sky in orange and pink, and the only thing keeping her tethered to the last gossamer thread of her sanity was the comforting warmth of Mutt pressing against her leg.

She was still desperately clutching the rucksack Theresa had given her, knuckles aching, and with one long, steadying breath, Sparrow unlocked her shaky knees. She'd had the entire journey from the Spire to acclimatize to freedom once again, a feeling she'd all but forgotten, but it hadn't seemed real until the Oakfield dock was solid under her boots. Even the open, endless ocean and the fresh salt air hadn't prepared her for this.

Speaking of her boots, and more generally the thrice-damned, vile uniform she was still kitted in… With a cry that made Mutt yelp in surprise, Sparrow yanked the coarse leather band from her head and hurled it violently out into the sea. The rucksack hit the dock with a dull thud and her gloves went down in the deep next, stained from years of horror and more recently the blood of her fellow officers, then the heavy, stifling prison of a coat. She was stripping down to her skivvies in the middle of a public dock, but nothing could possibly matter more than ridding herself of the stink of that nightmare.

Panting by the end, Sparrow rubbed her hands over the bare skin of her arms and reached deep inside until the blue glow of her own will began to pulse. She looked every inch a dangerous madwoman, she had no doubt, and she spared a brief, grateful thought for the absence of villagers.

How long had it been? Theresa hadn't said. Years, at least. A lifetime.

Yes, it had been a lifetime.

Finally, Mutt's tongue wetting her fingers snapped her back into reality. She'd been lost in the Spire again, just for a moment, but she managed to shake off the dark tendrils clinging to her heart and gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ear.

"You're a good lad," she said quietly, earning herself a few pleased thumps of his tail. Getting her wits back in order, Sparrow knelt and quickly unlaced the rucksack, her breath hitching at the familiar contents. Her pistol sat gleaming on top of all the rest, exactly as she remembered it: a master flintlock, the same make and model that still haunted the oldest of her nightmares. It was the gun she'd first blooded in the Crucible, the finest weapon she'd ever purchased, and it had proved it worth a hundred times over in countless battles. It was the gun Lucien would die by, if she had any say in the matter.

Setting the pistol aside for the moment, Sparrow pulled out the clothes Theresa had provided and began to dress. A simple shirt and trousers, nothing spectacular, but the hefty purse clinking around at the bottom of the sack meant that she'd be replacing her good togs in the near future. Her coat was there, though, wrinkled but still sharp with its shiny buttons and dark embroidery. It had been a lucky break that day in Bowerstone Market, darting inside the tailor's shop to escape a lovesick shag who'd become a bit too attached, and she'd walked out wrapped in the beautiful, finely made thing at half-cost. James, the tailor, had even dyed it special, dried it and pressed it while she'd waited— no extra charge except a flirty smile.

That crisp winter afternoon… it felt like a hundred years ago.

The coat still fit, thank the Light, though she'd have to get the cuffs let down a little. Time in the Spire had robbed her of any trace of baby-fat she might have had, trimming her muscles down into lean cord and sinew, and she'd managed to get a bit taller as well. She'd already been a head above most folk before she first boarded that accursed ship, but the way her wrists peeked out of the coat's sleeves meant she might have to start ducking through doorways.

Pulling on the simple boots, Sparrow buckled her belt and baldric before sliding her longsword into its sheath and her pistol into its holster. Her weapons were a comforting presence, Mutt was watching her patiently with his warm brown eyes, and she felt just a little bit more human.

She'd been many things in the Spire. A prisoner… no more than a number. A spy and a dissenter. A fool.

A murderer.

A monster.

Humanity was one of the first things they began to take, but it was an insidious thing. Dignity was snatched away with brutal efficiency; free will was stolen when the collar snapped in place. Humanity, though, was worn down and picked away like the flesh of a rotting corpse.

She needed to move, to get going and _do_ something, but she was in no proper state to trek down to Rookridge. Night was falling, and the only place in the world she was sure would be precisely the same as she'd left it was so nearby she could taste it. Serenity Farm, her refuge, and if her luck held at all she might even make it to the portal before anyone saw her. Slinging the rucksack over one shoulder, still half-full of potions, coin, and a little bit of food, Sparrow rose to her feet and jerked her thumb up towards the beach.

"Come on, Mutt," she said, and the dog was gone and bounding forth in an instant. His enthusiasm was heartening, enough that Sparrow blinked back some gritty heat that bloomed in her eyes. It was… incredible that they were together again. The one purely good, purely joyous thing left in her life.

She clicked her tongue when he made for the road, then motioned to the woods when he looked back questioningly. "Stealthy, love. We're headed home. Your master needs a rest."

The fields were different, the houses she could see were larger, but the path was the same. Keeping an eye out for nosy farmers, Sparrow stayed beyond the tree line whenever possible and vaulted a few fences as she winged around the centre of town.

It wasn't the first time she'd snuck off to her private little farm, but hopefully something better would be waiting for her this time. The Spire had managed to give her some perspective, along with a few new scars, but the memory of coming home to a surprisingly empty cottage still stung.

She'd been little more than a kid, she knew now— stupid and a bit cruel, and Alex hadn't really deserved any of it. He'd wanted a wife who didn't disappear for weeks on end, she'd chafed at the responsibility, but both of them had been a little too caught up in the romance of it to realise the truth. The bubble popped when she'd finally made it back to Oakfield, with her Crucible trophy tucked safely in her pack. It had been a few hours before dawn, the town had been silent and still, and Sparrow had been bursting at the seams to tell her husband all about her victory.

There'd been no warm, sleepy man waiting for her, however. Just a cold, empty bed and a note that cut her as brutally as balverine claws.

As far as she knew, that note was still tucked away in a cupboard along with her wedding ring and a shirt Alex must have forgotten, though she'd strongly considered tossing the lot in the stove. If it hadn't been for the stack of warrants she found waiting for her at the Sandgoose when she'd stormed in to get utterly piss-faced drunk, she'd have hoofed it back to Westcliff straight away. She'd never been one to turn down a bounty, though, which was probably for the best. A few weeks slogging around Albion, slaughtering bandits and hobbes and all other nasty sorts, had done her head a bit of good. Who knows what might have happened at that hellish Spire if she'd gone in still so torn apart and raw inside.

The cottage was empty again, but this time it wasn't unanticipated. Legs moving automatically, pushing forward, Sparrow found herself collapsing into bed before her mind truly caught up with her body. Then, blessedly, there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

Sun was filtering in through the window when she woke, though she guessed from the ache in her muscles and the foul dryness in her mouth that she'd been asleep for some time. She felt groggy, filthy and sticky in her clothes, and she spared Mutt a brief, absent pet on the muzzle before stumbling down the stairs and out into the warm, peaceful air. Shucking her clothes with fumbling, heedless fingers, Sparrow hissed when her bare foot first touched the water of her tiny creek, but the shock didn't deter her. If anything, the cold, clean feeling was precisely what she craved, and if it wasn't for Mutt's concerned barking she might have ducked her head under until she drowned.

Instead, she splashed her skin and scrubbed herself scarlet, tearing the half-healed scabs from her cheek and forehead. Bloody, _loathsome_ Commandant— she'd never be able to get that bastard's voice out of her head.

Mutt barked again, pacing in the grass, and Sparrow stood from the water with an annoyed grunt. Naked, sopping wet, and awash in gooseflesh, she rubbed her hand roughly across her eyes and up over her shorn head. "Mercy, dog, when'd you become such a mother hen?" Leaning down, she pressed a kiss against his nose in apology for her terse tone, then snatched up her clothes and gave them a quick scrub in the water before laying them out to dry on the rocks.

She had a few decent things still in her wardrobe, surely. Something that didn't stink of sour sweat would be a leg up, at any rate, and with that in mind she padded back towards the house. Daylight was burning away, and she had to stop dallying about. Taking the stairs three at a time, she began riffling through drawers and tossing what she needed onto the bed. Smallclothes were simple, but finding other clothing that might still fit proved a bit challenging.

Finally, after sorting through the small collection of garments she'd acquired through her travels, Sparrow found some old trousers that would tuck comfortably into the boots Theresa had provided. All her shirts were too loose, billowing under her arms and gaping at the neck, but a few weeks of decent food again would likely sort that out. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sparrow tugged the boots up over her calves before rubbing her hand over her scalp again.

It hadn't meant much in the Spire. Looking pretty wasn't a concern she'd had for years, but now that she wasn't surrounded by incredible ugliness, she felt a hint of long forgotten pride well up. It was only hair, it would grow back in no time, but it was a very physical reminder of all the Commandant had taken from her. She had no doubt the torn skin on her face would scar at least a little as well, but somehow, _foolishly_, that bothered her less.

"I'm being silly," she murmured, and Mutt whined softly in response. Slapping her hands against her thighs, Sparrow stood abruptly and pulled open one of the drawers she'd already dug through. "No, I'm being stupid."

The headscarf was mottled in shades of dark red— a colour that didn't do lovely things for the rough state of her skin, she was sure— but anything was better than showing off the soft bristles sprouting from her skull. A hat she'd taken off a dead highwayman followed, something she'd never considered as more than a small trophy, and soon Sparrow was fully rigged and eager to be gone.

With Mutt close at her heels, Sparrow slung her freshly packed bag over one shoulder and strode back out into reality. Beyond the swirling portal of the Demon Door, the wind held a distinct chill, but it was more brisk than unpleasant. Damp, mouldering leaves squished under her boots as she made her way towards the centre of Oakfield, and she managed to contain her flinch as the first farmer caught sight of her. There was recognition and shock ringing in his voice as he called out to anyone who would listen, and the townsfolk began to crowd before she'd made it to the Sandgoose. Still, there was a wary tension in the air that kept all but the bravest skittering around her like nervous hares, and she was bitterly glad of it. She wasn't their Hero, not as she had been.

Buying some food from the stalls was her first stop, and she considered indulging in a pie before thinking better of it. Greasy meat and pastry was not what her abused gut needed, but some fresh vegetables and bread sounded divine. Her hat, which was still perched somewhat self-consciously over her brow, actually blocked the glare of the autumn sun quite nicely, and kept her eyes from straying over to the staring yokels. A few days— that was all she'd need to get used to ordinary people again. She'd be all right once she got to Rookridge.

Leaving the peaceful little hamlet had never held such appeal, not even after Alex had scarpered. She felt like a bloody wolf among lambs.

* * *

Spire guards were trained hard and brutally, so at the very least she hadn't spent an eternity of damnation with her combat skills going to pot. Blasting her way through the bandits scattered along the road to the Lucky Heather wasn't satisfying, however— she couldn't seem to shake the numbness lingering around her edges.

Becoming so mechanical about killing people was something that should have bothered her. Certainly, taking great _joy_ in killing was also bad, but she didn't feel anything at all.

It wasn't something she was prepared to mull over, at least not yet.

Seeing Hammer again was jarring, but perhaps in a good way. The woman had looked at her with real _care_ twisted up in the face and dampness in her soft eyes, and Sparrow hadn't known what to do except allow herself to be dragged up into a crushing hug. It was affection and _friendship_, and it made some small, wounded animal deep in Sparrow's chest cry out with the pain of it.

No, she did not wish to speak of what had happened, of the past _decade_, and Hammer didn't pry. That was truly a blessing; Sparrow did not look forward to the day when the filthy truth was shoved blinking into the light. On that day, Hammer would be full of disgust and fury, and it might very well end in blood.

No, it was better to forget. Better for them all.


	2. Transformation

The statue had been… well, a bit much to be honest. She could almost hear Reaver's snide jibes, mocking the discomfort that darkened her expression as she peered up at her own face, frozen in pale marble. Her triumph, her _sacrifice_, preserved forever in stark relief—

When her eyes began to feel warm and gritty she turned away hastily, sinking deeper into the shadows of her hood as she stole off through the back alleys. A hood might be enough for some, but she was too tall to go unrecognised in Bowerstone if she wasn't extremely careful. Spending time in the city was something she'd forced herself to endure, refusing to allow grief to cripple her _now_, but there were moments she desperately wished she could pack up and hide away until the very sun itself burned out.

She remembered these streets, sharp with the bite of winter and hunger. She'd dreamed of a better life then, little girl dreams, but she'd never imagined the harsh reality that would burden such fancies. Rose's death was a jagged, aching scar she might never be rid of, but the choice she'd had before her…

It ate at her, festering, but she could not allow herself to regret the decision. A sister, already over twenty years dead and mourned, and a dog— that was not an unbearable price to pay for so many lives. It was not, even if it tore her heart from her chest. Such wretched grief was an old, familiar companion.

She sobbed once, nearly soundlessly, and quickened her steps. It had been a mistake to give in to her foolish curiosity, to come so deep into Old Town. A mistake she could hardly afford.

The aristocracy was squabbling, vainly grasping at the ruin Lucien had left behind him, but Sparrow was not content with such a state of affairs. Once again, she felt the weight of duty pushing her down a path she had never considered, but that was hardly a novel situation. A few good deals here and there, the influence of a Hero, and suddenly she was gaining support that put the gentry on edge.

She was under no illusions that things would continue to go as smoothly as they had been in these months since Lucien's defeat. Her machinations had thus far been exceptionally subtle, little more than whispers and smoke… such delicacy could scarcely last forever. Those currently in power would not give it up easily, but the seeds she'd been sowing were already taking root. With any luck, her garden would be well established before she was forced to make any truly bold moves.

It was a dangerous, potentially deadly game, regardless of her popularity among the people, but Albion needed stability. She had nothing more to lose.

* * *

Sparrow chuckled softly to herself as she ducked into the infirmary tent, despite the seriousness of the situation. They had their enemies on the run for the moment, and they'd managed not to suffer any serious causalities in the last bout of skirmishes— minor wounds, and few of them. That was enough to put a spring in her step, even faced with the scene laid out before her.

Walter Beck, the brash, mouthy lad who'd proven his mettle a hundred times over since he'd joined their cause, was sitting on a pallet, dressed in just his muddy trousers and boots. Intensely blue eyes flashed hot and angry at the healer currently prodding the bloody trench torn across his bare shoulder, but he wasn't squirming or cursing. That was more than could be said for most of the militiamen scattered about the tent, being tended. Sparrow herself could rarely keep her tongue in her head when the healers started their fussing, the few times she'd submitted to their care.

It was a graze, no bullet to remove, but it looked deeper than Sparrow (and Walter, doubtlessly) would have liked. The bastard was too foolhardy by half, and now he'd be getting a half-dozen stitches as recompense. They didn't have healing potions to spare on injuries that could be fixed through other means, no matter how uncomfortable those means might be.

Wiping the splatter of rain from her face, Sparrow crossed the tent and squatted down right in front of her tetchy little solider. A bit farther to the left, and he'd have lost half his neck.

"Always knew you were a bit thick, lad," she began without preamble, and watched with some amusement as his furious gaze shifted from the healer to her. "But I suppose I should thank my lucky stars this time, and thank _you_, come to think of it."

She didn't particularly enjoy being shot. Not only was it incredibly painful, even with a Hero's healing abilities, but it invariably brought back some of her more miserable memories. Walter, ploughing into her with all his substantial bulk and driving them both into the mud, had been all that kept her from taking a dose of lead to the gut— it had been a very lucky shot, and perhaps they were _both_ idiots.

"Get this damned sawbone away from me," Walter growled darkly, and she caught the wince that lanced across his face when the healer began to work in earnest, tugging the catgut mercilessly through his skin. "And I'd call that thanks enough."

She bit back a laugh, knowing neither healer nor patient would appreciate it. "Ah, would that I could, but if I let you go without suturing, all the others would want to bleed everywhere too." She motioned around the tent, grinning just a little. "One thing would lead to another, and then I'd have a broken down militia shuffling about like a pack of hollow men, missing ears and feet and the like. Terrible stuff."

The healer's hands were moving quickly, almost quick enough to make Sparrow wary of shoddy work, and Walter hissed quietly. "Ah, _balls_—"

"You put a tear in my favourite trousers, by the way." She was trying to distract him from the pain, partly in gratitude for sparing her a cot in the infirmary this time, but also because she genuinely _liked_ Walter Beck. He was strong, quite skilled for his age, and despite her teasing he was far from stupid. When he wasn't snarling like a balvarine with mange, the man was also rather pleasant company— bit of a dry wit, a kindly sort of gentleman, and he knew when to shut up. All in all, Sparrow looked back rather fondly on the day the young guard had abandoned his posting in Bowerstone to join her militia.

"Did I?" The colour was leeching from Walter's face, but his voice didn't waiver. In fact, she heard humour begin to wind its way in, which was a very gratifying sound. "Huh. Always _hoped_ I'd be this sore after such an achievement, but rather less frustrated." She would have answered the playfully bawdy comment with a dig of her own, but Walter jerked his thumb towards a nearby pile of filthy, bloody cloth. "I've got a shirt beyond repair, a jacket that needs mending, and the makings of a brand new scar. By the way."

The words were accompanied by a weak grin, more a gritting of teeth than anything, and Sparrow rocked back on her heels with a smile of her own. "Wait, didn't I hear you chewing out a couple of those new lads just last week, good Mister Beck? _It's a war, not a pissing contest _was the gist, if I recall correctly."

When the healer tied off the final stitch, Sparrow watched the majority of the tension ease from Walter's posture. There was still salve and bandages to go, but the worst was over. "I haven't the foggiest what you're on about," he replied archly, pulling a face when the pungent stink of healing salve wafted over them both, full force. "Ugh. I think you owe me an ale for this one, my lady."

Careful not to jostle overmuch, Sparrow smacked Walter's knee lightly and shook her head. "I'll owe you a knighthood when this is all over— does that sound fair?"

That drew another grimace, but Sparrow didn't miss the sparkle of surprised delight that lit deep in his eyes. It may have been said in jest, but she was utterly sincere as well. Walter Beck had proven himself an incredibly capable sort, and she was blessed to have him serve by her side.

When the healer turned away to gather bandages, Walter took the opportunity to gently flex his shoulder, grumbling in discomfort. "Ah, if it's all the same, I'd rather the ale."


	3. Adaptation

"You— You ask too much." The words tumbled out before she could think better of them, before she could _think_, and the air grew dangerously colder. Impossibly cold, truly, and Sparrow clutched her arms tighter around herself in a vain attempt to stifle the chill.

Theresa did not reply immediately, but Sparrow could feel the terrible weight of the seer's blind gaze settle upon her, warning. It was a look she recalled from her childhood, memories of those times she had riled against her saviour, her destiny, or her responsibilities. It was a look that still shamed her, the same as it had when she'd been a young girl in a gypsy caravan, so full of rage and fear.

The black, twisted landscape of the Spire was all around her, biting cruelly into the bare soles of her feet, and the thin fabric of her nightdress offered no protection against the wind. Miles below, the sea was churning in time with the sick rolling of her gut. Curling up in her bed that evening, Sparrow hadn't expected to wake in such a nightmare. She wasn't entirely certain she was awake, truth be told, but it did not matter. Theresa was real enough.

Eventually, just as Sparrow regained the presence of mind to form some kind of argument against this ridiculous task, the seer spoke.

"I ask only what is necessary, as I have always done." The gusts that whipped and tangled Sparrow's hair did not dare rustle Theresa's hood; not for the first time, Sparrow wondered what manner of power she had helped this woman attain. She wondered, and she worried. "After all you have accomplished, would you now let Albion fall to ruin for the sake of your pride, Hero?"

"It's _not_—" Rage and fear, just the same as before. With great effort, she swallowed the feelings back into her memories. "Just… please, Theresa. Must it… I mean, is there no one else? Garth? Or another, somewhere? Please—"

"There is no other." The words, firm and merciless, felt not unlike a punch to the throat. "The power of Will, unbalanced by Strength and Skill, has left Garth unsuitable. He is too old, and there is no other. Bloodlines must be strengthened if this land is to endure."

_For Albion._

She felt ill, bile crawling up her throat, and she did not even attempt to staunch the tears that welled up in her eyes. Despite her eerie impenetrability, her discomforting mystique, Theresa was still the closest thing to a mother Sparrow had ever known. Her birthmother was a dim, faded memory, built mostly from Rose's stories rather than real recollection. Theresa had saved her from a foul death, given her a home and a people, and taught her to survive. She'd taught her to fight and to win, first for revenge, but then instead for the good of Albion. She had given her purpose and hope, and now—

Now she merely asked for another sacrifice. Another test of her spirit and her resolve.

_For Albion._

This was a wretched business, but as ever, it was all for Albion.

"Fine," she said eventually, knowing Theresa would hear her even as her quiet voice was caught by the wind and blown out to sea. "For Albion, I will do this… but he must agree to my terms. There will be rules to safeguard against his depravity, and the — the _children_ must never know."

There was no smile beneath that damned hood, only a small nod. "Of course. I will see to it, little Sparrow."

* * *

It was one final insult that it would have to occur here, a place she had called a Sanctuary, but practically won out against sentimentality. Here, where only a select few could enter, and only with the help of a Hero's blood…

She had secured the entrance as best she could and blocked off the majority of the space with complex wards of Will, but after Reaver stepped foot inside, she knew she would never feel completely safe there again. Another sacrifice.

"How… intriguing." Speaking of the man himself, her fellow Hero was studying the warded door with great interest, even going so far as to risk a painful shock by touching the glowing barrier. "Locking me in the bedroom, darling? I knew the rumours were true."

Folding her arms tightly and keeping her eyes firmly away from the room's large bed, Sparrow glowered at his back. "I suppose it would be too much to ask that you not speak."

That earned her a darkly amused chuckle, and Reaver pressed his fingers against the ward again, causing crackles of power to spark along its surface. "Ah, you should have put that in the bargain, sweet thing. It's not too late, though— I could think of a few amendments of my own, if you'd like to renegotiate already."

"The deal stands." It was bad enough already. Theresa might be able to strong-arm Sparrow into the worst situations with talk of duty and Heroes, but Reaver was not so easily influenced. "Could we… damn it all, could we get this over with?"

"Ever the romantic, I see. How fortunate, I." Finally turning from the door, Reaver slunk towards her with a fluid, predatory grace that set her teeth on edge. His pistol was still strapped to his hip, as their agreement allowed, but his hand did not stray near it even a hairsbreadth. Rather worse, actually, Sparrow found that too-quick hand stroking lightly over her cheek. She very purposefully did not recoil, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.

Fingertips, hard with calluses despite his hedonistic indolence, traced down the pulse of her throat, and the faint smell of gunpowder and Reaver's expensive, subtle pomade assaulted her senses. She knew her heart was hammering, and that Reaver would feel it, but he did not comment.

"I am going to savour this," he murmured, but they were not tender words, nor even particularly amorous. They, and the small smirk that accompanied them, were thick with something akin to _promise_…

He had her trapped, just as securely as her ward kept him penned in. One night a season, every season, until one of them died or she grew ugly with age… the backbone of his terms. Not fortune, or even power, except power over _her_. They had argued over particulars for weeks, but finally it became appallingly clear that he would concede no more. The implications were revolting, but better than other provisions he could have demanded. This way, at least, she would be the only one to suffer for this wicked arrangement.

This way, at least, Albion would be safe.

* * *

_AN: Hello, and thank you for reading! I'm not ruling out adding more chapters to this eventually, but that might change in future. As it stands now, this is just a little accompanying piece to **Tesserae**, which may get a few more chapters as well. I have no idea when._

_Also, to **tt** and the others who've asked me about Walter's age, here's how I figure it: Walter fought with Sparrow during the civil war to unite Albion (this much is canon). I estimated Walter's age in Fable III as somewhere in his sixties, if a very healthy sixty-something. If Sparrow died "nearly 50 years" into her reign as Queen (also canon), then I'd say Walter was probably not yet twenty when he first met her. For my purposes, the Fable timeline is such a bitch to work with. Ugh. _


End file.
